


tiptoe through our shiny city

by ithacas



Series: Mistaken For Strangers [1]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-03
Updated: 2012-12-03
Packaged: 2017-11-20 05:10:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/581631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ithacas/pseuds/ithacas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where they’re two strangers on a train and end up spending the day in Paris. Because that’s what you do when you’re young and definitely not in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	tiptoe through our shiny city

**Author's Note:**

> Very much inspired by Before Sunrise.
> 
> Also, quoted in the title of Harry's song, is a line from Shinji Moon's 'Here's What Our Parents Never Taught Us'. You should check it out.

“...Zayn? Zayn! _Zayn?_ Shit.”

Louis shakes his mobile desperately between his hands as though he can magically turn it back on through sheer force of will; the screen of his iPhone remains resolutely black and he sighs heavily before slipping it into his backpack, trying to ignore the voice in his head - that sounds suspiciously like his best friend - mutter a chorus of _I told you so_. He blinks blearily and lies back on his seat, taking in the green scenery that sweeps past his window, nothing to distinguish whether they’ve crossed the border to France yet. It should be peaceful; the steady dull roar of the train, the landscape, the warm sheep skinned jacket he stole from Zayn with a wink before leaving, all of this should have him drifting off at this godforsaken hour in the morning but the couple next to him are insisting on not letting that happen.

He tries to meet the woman’s eyes to convey that he’s fucking pissed but she’s intent on maintaining a level of verbal abuse that only cats can hear at this point. Rolling his eyes instead, he grips hold of his graffitied backpack - _wanker, tosser, Zayn’s property_ , all terms of endearment in permanent marker that refuse to budge - and slides off his seat, walking to the end of the aisle and sprawling over the only two available seats opposite a boy with curly hair who’s pretending not to listen to the argument by reading an ad in a worn out copy of NME. Louis raises his eyebrows in question - _OK if I sit here?_ \- and the boy gives him half a smile with a mouth that’s too big for his face.

He takes to staring out the window again, a little overwhelmed by the vast amount of water everywhere, until he’s interrupted from his stupor by the arguing couple stomping past them, screaming in Dutch. He glances at the boy opposite him again and grins at how comically large he’s made his eyes look, like a terrified toddler with much too lanky limbs. “Any idea what that’s about?” He flicks a thumb behind him, pointing at the couple that’s - thankfully - disappeared. Louis shrugs.

“Not a clue. My foreign language skills extend as far as bonjour and something about going to the cinema with _mes copains_.”

The boys smiles wider, dimples framing his cheeks. “ _Je suis allé au cinéma avec mes copains et ma famille!_ Piss poor education, that.”

Louis lets out a laugh in spite of himself and presses the palm of his hand to his mouth when he realises he’s being as obnoxiously loud as the couple. The boy snorts with him, running a long fingered hand through his hair and pushing it back, away from his eyes. Green, Louis decides. He likes green.

“You from up north?” The boy keeps his voice low, sounding like he’s been to a rave party and downed half the stock in liqueur. Louis likes that too.

“Doncaster lad, born and raised. You?”

“Cheshire.”

“The posh end, I assume?”

“Well posh, innit?” He makes an exaggerated duck face at Louis before collapsing into a fit of giggles again. “Sorry, I'm jet lagged and I haven’t slept in about three days. I’m probably making no sense.”

“Same here,” Louis digs a knuckle into the corner of his eye, pulling off his sunglasses and hanging them from the v of his t-shirt; he can’t help but notice the slightly approving way the boy sizes him up. “I’d kill for a tea.” He glances covertly to their right, then leans in, stage whispering. “Don’t trust the Dutch and their tea making skills though.”

The boy guffaws again - Louis starts thinking of this as a personal victory, collecting every laugh he can - before leaning in too, bare arm brushing against the denim of Louis’s jacket. “They’re complete rubbish, trust me. Wouldn’t know what to do if you gave them a tea bag and a kettle. Coffee’s not half bad though. And we are technically in France now.”

Louis knots his eyebrows together, keeping his smile tight lipped. “Are you offering to buy me coffee, you kind hearted soul?”

The corners of the boy’s mouth practically reach up to his ears as he rolls up his magazine, tugging the handle of his leather travelling bag over his shoulder. “The buffet car’s just back there. I can’t make any promises on the quality of the _café au lait_.” His accent is _really_ horrible.

“Maybe I’ll order an espresso just to piss them off. I’m Louis, by the way.” He stretches his hand over, feeling the slightest bit dwarfed when they both stand up in the aisle. He makes it up in personality, anyway, he thinks to himself, as the boy catches his wrist between his fingers, not quite shaking hands.

He’s biting his lower lip as he says, “Nice to meet you, Lou. I’m Harry.”

 

*

 

They end up grimacing at watery cups of filter coffee, Harry stealing Louis’s sugar packets without asking and wincing at the bitterness even though he’s half a Cadbury Button from his teeth falling out. Louis smacks his hand down when he tries to catch the waiter’s attention - _I’m pretty sure they ran out of sweeteners about half an hour ago, mate_ \- and Harry doesn’t protest other than sticking his lip out to pout. The expression fits him so well Louis has to remind himself he’s only known this boy for barely an hour.

“So, what’s your story, then? What’s in Amsterdam?”

Harry makes a face. “Not much, anymore. Had a gig with my band there, at one of the festivals. Decided to stay on a bit with the girlfriend. Turns out I don’t have a girlfriend.”

Louis makes a sympathetic noise, trying not to look too pleased at this turn of events. “Tough luck, mate. I’m sorry.”

Harry waves him off, a grin already plastered on his face. “Better off, to be honest. Never one for commitment, me, not really. Plus, we were gonna be, like, a continent apart anyway.” Louis frowns in question. “The band’s trying to break America. My mates have already settled down, found a flat in LA and everything. That’s why I’m heading to Paris.”

Louis whistles, impressed. “So you’re telling me I’m sharing a fucking awful coffee with a rockstar?”

“Hopefully?” There’s a slight pink tinge to Harry’s cheeks at Louis’s words that he shouldn’t honestly find that endearing. Instead of answering, he rummages through his backpack, pushing away dirty clothes and tubs of hair wax until he fishes out a battered notebook and a chewed to death biro. He slides them to Harry.

“I’d like an autograph. It better be worth a lot someday.”

Harry stares at him with the doe-eyed look Louis’ already sort of getting used to before dropping his head down, hiding a bashful grin behind the mane of uncontrollable hair. The biro spins awkwardly in his hand as he contemplates the blank page in front of him; Louis watches him start writing in careful, loopy letters, brow furrowed in concentration. It’s a little bit adorable.

“Here.” He pushes the dog-eared notebook back - something else Louis must have borrowed from Zayn - and Louis holds it up to read.

_To Lou,_  
_Promise you a proper tea once I’m rich and famous._  
_Also, a train ride all to ourselves, haha._  
_Love,_  
_Harry xxx_

Louis bites down hard on the inside of his cheek, trying to control his face. His eyes meet Harry, who looks completely unabashed, and he waves the piece of paper in front of him. “I’m framing this. I can tell you’re gonna make something of yourself, curly.”

“Cheers, man,” Harry laughs, eyes sparkling.

“Trust me, Haz, I know these things. You’ll have a number one by next year.”

“Ohhh, ambitious, I like it.” Harry bites down on the top of the biro, apparently forgetting it’s not his, and points his chin at Louis. “What brought you over to the continent, then?”

Louis leans back, hugging the notebook to his chest and yawning. “Best mate’s studying abroad. And what kind of madman says no to a two week holiday in Amsterdam?”

“Two weeks? I’m surprised you’re still standing.”

Louis laughs. “We went a bit wild our first week. Then we somehow ended up with a couple of geese in Zayn’s dorm room, so the rest of the holliday was a bit more peaceful. No more special brownies.”

Harry nods, not phased in the slightest by the story. “So, why Paris?”

Louis groans. “Missed my flight. So I spent every last penny on Amsterdam-Paris, Paris-London. Joy.”

“Hey, it’s not that bad. You got to witness a divorce settlement first hand.”

“And I got to meet a future Grammy winner.”

“All good things in my book,” Harry winks at him and Louis very determinedly ignores the hot flush that travels down his neck. He turns to the window, finally catching sight of something that isn’t flat fields and cows grazing at grass; he can count at least two skyscrapers and enough cars to make certain they’re nearing Paris. He taps his watch quietly. “We should be at the station in about ten minutes. Should we head back for our stuff?”

They lean by the door as the train pulls into the station, Harry chatting animatedly about his band’s newest song - _Liam keeps slipping in all these superhero references, it’s actually getting, like, ridiculous, you can’t have kryptonite and Mary Jane all in one verse, can you?_ As they get off they fall easily into an even pace, Louis pulling his battered suitcase behind him. Once they get to the main platform, Louis shields his eyes to check the announcements, dread settling in his stomach. “That’s mine, then. 7’45, St. Pancras. I should probably get going.” He makes no move towards the platform.

Harry’s worrying his lip between his teeth. “Listen, I...My flight’s at about, uh, something like ten o’clock tonight. I was just gonna mess about in Paris all day - you know, no money. But, like, it was fun talking to you and I’m pretty sure you can grab the train tonight, so, if you, I dunno...I mean, if you, want?” It takes him almost a full ten minutes to drag the words reluctantly out of his mouth - Louis has never quite met someone who speaks so damn slowly. In contrast, it takes Louis approximately three seconds to make up his mind. He gives Harry his most crinkly-eyed smile and watches with satisfaction as Harry properly glows.

“Why the fuck not?”

 

*

 

They start walking aimlessly, moving in the general direction of the traffic, and Louis has never seen a city so still. It’s not even six in the morning, he reasons, and it’s a Sunday and he can’t really fault the French if they want a lie in. They’ve left their luggage at the train station and Harry rejects Louis’ offer to buy a map - because, apparently, coming over for a daytrip with a bunch of sixth formers makes him an expert in Parisian geography. They do end up in the Champ de Mars - Harry’s awfully smug when he points out the Eiffel Tower - but whether it’s just dumb luck or Harry’s erratic street walking decisions, Louis doesn’t really care.

They pass by cafés and pastry shops, curtains still drawn or owners mumbling incoherently as they order sacks of flour to be handled with care. Somehow they wind up helping a slight girl wearing an apron, carrying boxes of fruit into her shop, and Louis rolls his eyes unimpressed because he’s beginning to realise that Harry is a sucker for a pretty smile. It’s not so bad when he figures out he has that same power himself; a handful of flour in those ridiculous curls makes Harry pounce at him in a second but when Louis laughs, loud and tinkling and infectious, Harry stops and shakes his head, those damn dimples back in full force. They get a few croissants free for their efforts - and Harry pockets a number, Louis can’t help but notice - and then continue on, sun finally in full view ahead.

“C’mon, Lou. Picture time!”

“Seriously, Harry, this is the most touristy of all touristy things, I am not -”

“Oh, give over, you look gorgeous, let’s have a smile. Say ‘fromage’!”

Louis can’t help the grin on his face and bats his eyelids in Harry’s direction, pointing two rude fingers to his side where he knows the Eiffel Tower is behind him.

“Perfect.”

“Is it really,” Louis deadpans, but takes the camera anyway, frowning at the photo. It’s not bad actually; he has bags under his eyes and his hair is hidden under a beanie but the lighting’s not bad and you can’t really beat the scenery. “Passable.”

“Gorgeous,” Harry repeats, stealing back the camera and snapping some more, all of which probably feature Louis wide-mouthed and yelling obscenities no one will be able to (thankfully) hear.

“While flattery is certainly the way to my heart,” Louis says loudly, purposely disturbing a couple of what looks like pretentious art students who were just staring at the sky - Harry tries to look serious but disapproving doesn’t seem to work for him - “I much prefer being seduced on a full stomach, Styles.”

Harry giggles and looks Louis up and down, seemingly trying to figure out whether to rise to the bait. “We did just eat, Lou.”

Louis wrinkles his nose. “That really wasn’t food. That was airy fairy pastry, at its worst. I’m a growing boy, I need proper sustenance.”

“Meaning...?”

“Meaning I want a full english that’s not embellished with toads’ legs or snails.” Louis sighs rather dramatically and falls to the grass, shielding his eyes until Harry stands over him. It’s hard to resist smiling at that face.

“You want to eat a fry-up in the capital of France.” He sounds so amused, Louis feels rather accomplished.

“I’m a patriot. Queen and country and all that.”

“You’re a menace, that’s what you are.”

“You love it.”

Harry bites his lip and doesn’t answer, instead offers Louis a hand to pull him up. Louis lets himself appreciate the ease with which he’s lifted, smiling crookedly and leaning against Harry when he’s standing up. “You look like you’ve had an epiphany, Harry.”

“Something like that. C’mon, it’s probably better if we get there before hungry French people do.”

“Er...”

“Just trust me, yeah?” Harry’s smile is pretty blinding so Louis just nods and follows, keenly aware of the fact that they’re still holding hands. He doesn’t let go.

They end up on a road dotted with parked cars, close to the Seine, where eager tourists in shorts and that hideous combination of socks and sandals are roaming around following the GPS on their phones like a compass. Harry seems to be considering the bistrots on either side of the road until he settles for one that looks entirely too French to have even heard of sausage and mash. “This’ll do,” he nods and drags Louis with him, sitting him down on one of the empty tables and telling him - very slowly, like he’s a bloody overactive toddler - to wait.

“Harry!”

“Just be a mo’!” His voice is echoing as though he’s barged into the kitchen or something.

Oh. _Oh_.

It takes him about ten minutes to give into his curiosity - well, that and the fact that the bistrot seems to be severely lacking in waiters. He finds them all huddled at the doorway to the kitchen - all six of them, neatly pressed uniforms and notebooks hanging from their aprons, all leaning over each other trying to get a better look. One of the girls turns around when he gets nearer and gives him the whitest smile he’s ever seen. “You are Louis?” She pronounces it as ‘Loueh’, which, OK, is sort of endearing and also reminds him of Zayn drunk, so sue him if he flirts right back and nods. She grasps him by the forearm and beams at him. “You are very lucky, Louis.”

“Am I?”

One of the male servers says something in rapid French and the girl holding Louis lets out a comical laugh. “He is right. We have never seen our chef being told what to do. Your Harry has done the impossible.”

He heats up a little at the words - _your Harry_ doesn’t sound half bad - but doesn’t correct her, simply fits himself between the others and appreciates the view of Harry, hair pushed back with some sort of sparkly headband, chatting animatedly with the chef Louis is willing to bet can’t speak a lick of English, while he stirs what looks suspiciously like baked beans. He didn’t even know they had baked beans in France. Something tells him they probably didn’t. Harry’s face could probably conjure a tin of Heinz Baked Beans out of thin air.

Harry notices his audience about half way through burning the bacon to a nice crisp. He shakes his head, missing the curls framing his face, and mouths _I told you to wait_ to Louis. Louis shrugs all nonchalant and crosses his arms, pointedly not moving.

Harry presses his lips together, making a face Louis would probably call exasperated on any other human being. “Might as well come and help, then, since you ruined the surprise.”

“Hardly a surprise, love. But I should warn you I’ve burnt down kitchens before.”

“Just hold a plate while I dish up then. I promised Maurice he could try some.”

Louis pouts. “And here I thought I was special.”

Harry blinks at him. “I got a French chef to let me use his kitchen while I cook you a full English breakfast. I’d say you’re pretty special.”

Louis clamps his mouth shut at that, trying (and failing) not to look the picture of chuffed. After Maurice the Chef tries Harry’s masterpiece - _pas terrible_ which apparently is the highest of praise, though for the life of him, Louis doesn’t get why - they settle down on one of the tables outside, sharing a plate of fried goodness that makes Louis actually moan aloud. Harry looks proper embarrassed at the reaction, which has definitely got to be a first since Louis met him.

“I think I’m going to have to keep you, Harry Styles.”

Harry’s eyes are impossibly green as he looks up, almost bashful. He’s practically a Disney character brought to life. “‘Keep me’?”

“Uh huh,” Louis nods, picking another mushroom to wolf down. “Can’t have the colonies stealing a national treasure away.”

“I don’t think you can call them the colonies anymore, Lou.”

“Smart and pretty, you’re actually breaking my heart now.”

The smile that doesn’t fit on his face returns in full force at Louis’ praise and it’s a struggle not grab Harry’s camera and snap a picture for longevity. But then, Louis’ never been one to control his impulses; he reaches a hand under the table and bats Harry’s hands away until he takes a hold of the small digital camera. Harry’s in a right state as he clicks repeatedly, all flushed and giggly (Louis stores the information of where exactly he’s ticklish for future reference), preening like a five year old. “You’re bloody photogenic, as well. That’s it, changed my mind, I hate you.”

“ _And_ I cook.”

Louis groans and drops his head to the table. “I feel unaccomplished and inferior.”

“Hey.” He feels a finger sneak under his chin and lift it up and he’s treated to those bloody eyes again. “Really no need to feel any of those things. I think you’re brilliant and I’ve only known you for about,” Harry checks his watch, “five hours. I expect to be completely smitten by this afternoon.”

“Well, then. Same here, you charming bastard.”

Harry’s grin could practically light up the sun and about half of Tokyo. 

 

*

  
“I can’t believe you talked me into this.”

“You were the one who insisted we were tourists. Embrace it, Styles. It’s romantic.”

Harry’s hands curl all the way around the rails and he takes a step higher, leaning over until he’s facing the water. Louis’ hand bunches on the back of his shirt almost as a reflex; he refuses to smile back when Harry turns to him, looking extremely pleased with himself. “I’m not jumping, Lou, don’t worry.”

“Go ahead, I’d be glad to be shot of you, to be honest,” he says instead, turning resolutely the other way, watching pedestrians walk the west bank, his fingers still holding Harry put. He doesn’t let out a sigh of relief when Harry steps down - that would _stupid_ and Louis isn’t stupid, despite appearances and what Zayn says - but he does breathe a little easier, raising an eyebrow at him. “That was very Titanic.”

“Hey, you said it’s romantic. And we’re on a boat, I can’t help myself.”

Louis nods absently, tucking his smile away in the folds of his coat, wrapping his arms around himself. It probably wasn’t one of his best ideas to ride on a bateau mouche in the middle of December - no one else on the trip seemed to have braved the open deck for more than a couple of minutes before huddling to the warmth inside. But the view was too pretty to waste really. He sneaks a look at Harry, leather jacket open and his chest full of goosebumps, the _idiot_ ; Paris looks good too, he supposes.

“Are you cold, Louis?”

“If you can manage, I can, curly.”

“Here.” Harry sidles in behind him, resting his chin on Louis’ shoulder and covering them both with his stupidly big coat. Louis hesitates a second before falling back and fitting himself against Harry, grudgingly keeping his face blank. “Better?”

“A bit,” Louis shrugs, trying not to shiver as Harry’s breath tickles his ear. Harry hums against him and Louis feels it travel down his spine and, honestly, when the hell did this bloody happen?

“Ah, look, the Pont Neuf!” Harry points at the bridge looming over them, one arm still tight around Louis’ waist.

“Are you trying to impress me, Styles?”

“I’ve been trying all day. Is it working?” He can hear the smugness in his voice.

“I went to Paris in Year Ten, too, you twat, I know what the bloody Pont Neuf is!”

“Fine, fine.” Harry puts his face closer to Louis’ again, both arms warm around them. “I’ll stop pointing out the sights. I like it better like this anyway.”

“Wrapped around me like an octopus?”

“Yup. ‘S cosy.”

Louis lets a shaky breath, watching it turn into smoke. “Can’t argue with that.”

“Good. Don’t. But, just in case you didn’t notice...”

“I’m not blind, Harry. D’you want me to sing the ‘Bells of Notre Dame’ as we go by?”

“I think I’d enjoy that,” Harry laughs and Louis really, _really_ , shouldn’t be this affected by it. He should pull away and laugh it off and do everything Louis does to make things comfortable and familiar. But that’s just the thing; it’s already fucking comfortable and familiar. So, instead, he slides an arm out (much to Harry’s muffled protests) and slots it against Harry’s, tangling their fingers together and sharing the warmth. Harry smiles approvingly, his head practically buried in Louis’ neck.

“I was actually joking. But, by all means, you can belt out a Disney song if you feel like it, rockstar.”

“Can’t do that.”

“Uh huh. And why’s that?”

“Shy.” Harry’s hair is tickling him as Louis turns around ludicrously. Harry still won’t let go though, so they’re stuck in a silly sort of half hug; Harry doesn’t look exactly put out by it.

“Well, that’s ridiculous.”

“Well, sorry. No private gigs for you.”

Louis narrows his eyes. “You said your flight was at ten? That gives me, at _least_ , eight hours to break you. You’ll sing for me yet, curly.”

“You want to break me? Okay.” Harry nods, half biting his lip, half smiling.

“It’ll happen, Styles,” Louis resumes his position, leaning against Harry, watching the Notre Dame come closer and closer.

“I’m counting on it,” Harry murmurs in his ear and it’s all Louis can do not to pounce on him right there.

 

*

 

“I’m willing to bet you have more than your fair share of vintage holey t-shirts, Harry.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Just a feeling. But, no, I’m not letting you spend money on that, that’s horrible. And it’s about fifteen sizes too big.”

“I like ‘em loose.”

Louis looks at him, pursing his lips and trying not to break into laughter. “There’s a joke to be made there. But I’m too much of a gentleman to make it.”

Harry giggles, completely undignified. “Glad you’re making that sacrifice for me, Louis.”

After more coaxing and eventually giving in and letting Harry buy a Ramones shirt - “You realise they are ripping you off, yeah?” “Yeah. But I look good in it. Don’t I?” “OK, you do, but.” - Louis steers them both away from the stall at the flea market, guiding them through the throngs of people. Harry points out random shit most of the time - “Louis, look, it’s a whisky flask!” “Not in the prohibition era, Harry. Also, not in Chicago.” - and Louis takes it upon himself to rein him in, keeping a tight lock on his wrists and smiling into Harry’s back whenever he begins to wander off.

They bicker all the way through the market, never letting go of each other once, agreeing only when Louis spots a stand with books yellowed enough to convince himself they’re more than a decade old and Harry whines on his shoulder until he notices the box of records nearby. Louis’ leafing through a worn out copy of Les Mis - at least he assumes so, the writing is so faded and so _French_ that it’s difficult to make out, but if Éponine and Cosette are anything to go by, he might just have use his bargaining skills - when he hears a familiar melody distinguish itself from the mutterings of the noisy tourists. He slaps a hand over his eyes but doesn’t attempt to hide the smile as he watches Harry play air guitar along with Blondie. Harry grins goofily in answer, looking more like a child than a grown up wannabe rockstar, and Louis loses it there and then, putting Victor Hugo down and clasping his hand in Harry’s. He pulls him down just enough so they’re at the same height - as long as he stands on his toes - and presses a sloppy, closed-mouthed kiss on Harry’s lips.

There are a few wolf whistles as he lets go but he’s concentrating too much on Harry to feel embarrassed. Harry looks awfully dazed, blinking slowly, his cheeks pink from the cold and his mouth wet and red, but a lazy smile makes its appearance on his face, dimples dug deep. “What was that for?” he asks, his voice even more damnably slow.

“I - wanted to, I dunno.” Louis ducks his head now, willing himself not to blush, and is left without warning when Harry leans his head alongside, kissing the corner of Louis’ lips.

“All done with your shopping?”

“Yeah - I think I’m good.”

“Good, then,” Harry nods, smiling like a madman. “Shall we?”

“We shall.” Louis takes the arm that’s offered, shaking his head at what he’s got himself into.

 

*

 

“Name.”

“You know that, you bloody fool.”

“We have to start somewhere!”

“Fine, fine. Louis, then.”

“Louis...?”

“Louis Tomlinson, at your service.”

“Nice to meet you, Louis Tomlinson. I’m Harry Styles.”

“You don’t say!”

“Play nice, Lou.”

“Okay, your turn now. Age?”

“Oh, cutting deep with the questions, aren’t we?”

“Shut it, you. Just answer the damn question.”

Harry snorts, tightening his hold around Louis’ shoulder; Louis retaliates with a jab at his waist as they make their way through the newly lit up streets. Louis has his free hand in the box Harry’s offering, contemplating on his next choice of macaron; he goes for the blue in the end, wincing a little at the sweetness. _Trust Harry._

“Age, then,” Harry sighs, like it’s a bloody hardship. “Eighteen.”

“Young’un, then,” Louis hums, wagging his tongue in front of him to see if it’s blue; Harry knocks at it with his nose. “Ugh, that’s disgusting, Harold. I don’t know where your nose has been.”

“You don’t know where my mouth has been either but that didn’t stop you.”

“Not the same.”

“Exactly the same. And _your_ age?”

“Twenty one and loving it. Ha! I just realised you’re going to be under the drinking age in America. Fine bloody band you’ll be with an underage singer.”

“It’ll add to my image.”

“And what image is that? Virginal choir boy who happens to play guitar?”

Harry presses his tongue against his hollowed cheek and Louis has to remember to breathe for a second. “Do I look like a virginal choir boy?”

Louis clears his surprisingly dry throat. “Well, no. But you don’t look like a kid fresh out of juvie either so it’s three years of abstinence for you. _Alcohol_ abstinence, you smartarse, don’t think I don’t know what your big mouth was about to say. Last job.”

“I worked at a bakery back home.”

Louis raises his eyebrows in surprise. “Really? Were you any good?”

Harry chuckles. “I tried. Flirting with the customers apparently helped.”

“I bet.” Louis rolls his eyes.

“Hey, I saw that.” He squeezes the muscles in Louis’ arms and Louis has to bite back a groan. “Dream job.”

“Footballer. I tried out for the Rovers.”

“And?”

“Didn’t make the cut. Also, I was seduced by academia.”

“Were you?”

“English at Manchester, I’ll have you know.”

Harry meets his eyes - sparkly now, in the half light - and nods. “Yeah, had you pegged for something like that. Bit more artistic maybe.”

Louis shrugs. “I do some drama on the side. It’s not really a thing. Brothers? Sisters?”

“One sister. Older and a menace. You?”

“Four half sisters. All devils in disguise. Number of tattoos?”

Harry pauses, eyebrows furrowed as he counts. “As of now. Twenty seven, I think.”

“Impressive. Anywhere naughty?” He leers at Harry and winks.

“Hey, one question at a time, remember? Them’s be the rules. And maybe you’ll just have to find out,” he adds in a conspiratorial whisper. “Celebrity crush?”

“Oh, tough one. Susan Boyle.”

“Shove off!”

“It’s the _curls_.”

Harry looks mollified. “Yeah, okay. She’s well fit and that.”

“Someone’s cocky. Speaking of. When did you lose it?”

“Lose what?” They stop at the sidewalk, waiting for the traffic lights to turn green. Harry’s grinning widely again, his skin a little flushed. Louis feels inordinately pleased with himself.

“You know exactly what.” He pulls his arm from Harry’s waist, opting instead to tangle their fingers together.

“Fourteen. A mate of my sister’s.”

“Girl or boy?”

Harry’s eyes are glinting as he turns to Louis. “Girl. Then boy.”

“You tart!”

“You?”

“Me, what?”

“ _Louis_.”

“Fine, fine. Sixteen. Girlfriend. Then seventeen, best friend.”

Harry makes a face. “That sounds awkward.”

Louis laughs, pressing his head close to Harry, counting the silver Citroens that drive by.

“It actually wasn’t. It was just...nice.”

“Lucky you.”

“I guess,” Louis shrugs, pulling Harry away, eyes on the bright lights just down the road, where he can see a crowd of twenty somethings, all nursing a bottle and swaying a little to the music playing from somewhere. “Title of a song you wrote.”

Harry makes a whining sort of noise. “It’s gonna sound weird.”

“I study English. I’ve probably heard worse.”

“Fine. Okay. ‘ _You Are A Hurricane-Prone Area._ ’”

Louis spins as he’s walking, stopping them both in the middle of the road; luckily there’s no traffic. “Now that, you have _got_ to explain.”

“It’s a metaphor.”

“Well, yes, Harry, I got that or else I’d be worried what kind of people you hang out with. Is it about about an ex?”

“Not, um, not really.” Louis feels Harry squeeze his hand a little tighter and smiles encouragingly. “Just, you know, people. Leaving. And what they leave behind.”

He can’t help the soft look that takes over his face as Harry talks, his brow furrowed, fingers playing with his dry lips like he’s nervous. “It sounds like a good song, Haz.”

“You think?” Harry lights up at that, shyness tucked away. “Maybe you’ll get to hear it sometime.”

“I’d like that,” Louis nods, trying to keep the sad edge from his voice. He didn’t do a good job of it if Harry’s soothing thumb drawing circles on his wrist is anything to go by. “Let’s grab a beer and wander about, yeah?”

They end up by the banks of the Seine again, clinking bottles whenever drunk students head their way, breaking into a rendition of ‘Glory Glory Man United’ when they spot a group of English lads, all decked in red and yelling abuse at the Eiffel Tower for some reason.

“Favourite ice cream flavour.”

“Um, cookie dough?”

“Ugh, you do have a bloody sweet tooth, don’t you. Mine’s anything with chocolate. Be a dear, would you?”

The puppy-eyed look is back and Harry swoops down, hand cupping Louis’ chin to bring him up for a kiss before he bounds off to the ice cream vendor who’s warming his hands over a heater. Louis catches himself staring after him, silly smile attached to his face as he watches Harry chalk up some broken French, gesticulating frantically, all long-limbed and messy-haired. He forces himself to turn away, walking slightly ahead where a cluster of people are leaning on each other, swaying to the sound of a guitar. He throws a note into the open case and winks at the blond kid playing. “Cheers, mate,” he whispers with a toothy grin, Irish drawl complementing the strings of his guitar.

Harry’s arms snake around his waist in the middle of the song, his hand lifting up just enough for Louis to take a sloppy lick of his ice cream cone. Louis leans back, already getting used to this kind of treatment. The Irish kid is looking up at them now with a kind of goofy fondness, his fingers running along the guitar until he starts playing the Pixies. Louis rolls his eyes and Harry starts laughing as he breaks into the chorus of ‘Here Comes Your Man’.

“You did promise you were gonna sing for me.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Well, you’re going to, aren’t you?” He chuckles when Harry groans and bites down on his shoulder, already giving in. “I told you I was going to break you, Styles.”

“Any requests?” Harry’s still half-hidden behind his hair, practically engulfing Louis.

“Surprise me, curly. Now, go!”

Harry scrapes his teeth across Louis’ neck before walking off, shifting down easily and whispering to the guitar player. He can see Harry introducing them - “I’m Niall, nice to meet ya, mate.” - and shake hands, before sitting down languidly and shaking his hair to the side. He gives Louis a thumbs up before nodding at Niall; Louis joins the rest of the crowd sitting cross-legged on the floor, resting his chin on his knees and wrapping his arms around his legs.

He doesn’t recognise the song at first; just hums along to the sound of Harry and Niall’s voices, shivering at Harry’s low sort of growl as he sings out the words. He remembers the carefully folded piece of paper he has in his rucksack - _love, Harry_ \- and thinks that maybe that was one of his smarter ideas; Harry’s got the kind of voice that should fill stadiums and it makes him feel the slightest bit proud to have seen that.

The song ends and there’s a smattering of applause from the crowd that starts to disperse and Niall grins widely at the bills that fall freely as they leave. He tries to share half with Harry who refuses with a shake of those silly curls and settles for scribbling his email in Niall’s open guitar case, making him promise to hit him up if he’s ever in LA. They hug instead of just shaking hands and Louis has to laugh when Niall’s arms wrap around him too - “We’re basically best friends now I’ve serenaded you with Nutini.” He makes a point off proving it by taking Louis’ ice cream and wincing at the cold and Louis thinks he could like this kid really easily given time.

“You lovebirds better get going, if you’re gonna catch that train. Last one’s in,” Niall looks down at the watch on his wrist, fingers still strumming vaguely, and makes a pained face, “less than an hour, I’d say. Fuck, you two are making me wanna write sappy songs about star crossed lovers or some shit.”

“Neither of us are planning on dying, I don’t think,” Louis turns to Harry, raising his eyebrows until Harry nods sagely, eyes shut. “So there’s that.” He settles more comfortably against him, making sure to keep his face blank as he feels Harry’s fingers drum a soft beat over his ribs the way he’s wrapped around him. Niall smiles knowingly.

“It was nice meeting ya, lads.” He gives them another hug, this time just sort of falling over Louis until he reaches a bit of Harry. Louis doesn’t think he’s ever in his life met two people who enjoy a cuddle more than Harry and Niall - aside from himself obviously. He squeezes Niall back and grins. “See you around, mate. Thanks for the song.”

“He’s a keeper,” Niall winks, waving them off. “So’re you!”

Harry laughs as they start walking away and Louis restrains himself just until he’s sure the walkway is empty. When he’s certain there are only a couple of drunk smokers within walking distance on either side of them, he grabs at Harry’s shirt - he’d taken his jacket off before, the absolute _fool_ , and forced Louis into it with a smug bloody smile and an infuriating “It looks good on you, Lou.” - and pulls him against him as Louis presses his own back to the wall. Harry falls against him with an ‘oomph!’, then half giggles, half groans as Louis’ nails scratch a trail over the line of his jeans.

“You sang Nutini to me, you fuck. What kind of indie rock god do you expect to be, singing to me about ‘one last time let’s go there’ blah blah fucking blah?” He bites down on Harry’s stupid dry red lips to emphasise his point.

“So, you liked it?” Harry smiles into Louis’ mouth, one hand stroking along the column of his neck, the other digging into his hipbone, keeping him put.

“Of course I fucking liked it, you prick!”

“Jesus, Lou, don’t shower me with - _ha_ , cold, _cold! - compliments!_ ”

“I’ll do what I want.” Louis buries both hands in Harry’s hair, licking into his mouth possessively and bracing himself when he breaks away. “But I have a fucking train to catch.”

Harry shakes his head, lips still brushing over Louis’. “Okay,” he says, sounding like he’s dragging the words from his mouth. “Okay. You do. Have a train to catch.” He sounds like he’s too overwhelmed for anymore words and Louis thinks _me, that’s all me_ and his head spins a little.

“Snogging your face off, while lovely, is not going to get me on that train, love. Giddy up.”

Harry snorts in surprise, delight etched on every inch of his face. “You did not just say -”

“Let’s forget what I might or might not have said and let’s _move_.”

 

*

 

The cab drive to the station is mostly silent, neither of them quite up to talking. They sit at each side, leaning against the window, not touching until Harry reaches out a hand and starts playing with Louis’ fingers in the space between them. Louis’ tired, if he’s perfectly honest, keeping himself from dozing off only thanks to the occasional shout from the cab driver and the string of undoubtedly rude French words that follows from the rest of the traffic.

“Lou? Louis, we’re here.”

He blinks at the voice near his ear and smiles lazily up at Harry who’s looming over him with the fondest expression on his face. He pats his cheek and gets up from where he’s fallen uncomfortably in the cab seat, leaning over to pay the cabbie. They get into a small scuffle, the both of them, until Harry relents and lets Louis pay - “I’m still moony over that breakfast, it’s the least I can do, Haz.”.

Fatigue starts rolling over him in waves as they make their way into the station, hand’s width apart but still close enough for it not to be uncomfortable. Louis goes to check his ticket, joining the ridiculously long queue of sleep-deprived, insufferable compatriots that seem to be complaining in unison, turning every so often to watch Harry browsing the newsstand, slouching with his hair all over the place. There’s something tight in his chest every time he turns and makes sure Harry’s still there, something that only gets worse when he tucks the ticket in his backpack and glances at the time. His train leaves in ten minutes.

“All set?” Harry smiles at him all easygoing, fingers wrapped around a plastic bag. Louis tries to sneak a peek, curious.

“Low on literature, Harry?”

“We’ve both got long journeys ahead of us, it’s always nice to have something to distract you.”

“True enough. Let’s see what you got then, I read nothing lesser than the Economist, I’m warning you.”

Harry huffs out a laugh and leads them to one of the benches close to Louis’ platform. He tips the bag over the seat and Louis frowns for a second before realising. “You got two of everything.”

Harry’s expression is sheepish and he’s stuffing his hands in his too skinny jeans like he’s shy. “At least we’ll be on the same page for a while.”

“I appreciate the thought, even though,” Louis leans down to pick up one of the magazines with Cheryl Cole’s face plastered in front, “two _Hello_ s is excessive whatever the context.” He can feel his face turn warm as he smiles at Harry. “This is nice though. This is... _really_ nice, Haz.”

Harry swipes a finger across Louis’ cheekbone and their eyes meet, both a little sad. The overhead announcement makes them break apart again, Louis scrambling around for his suitcase and tucking the stuff Harry got him under his arms. They run zig-zaggedly through the crowd, only stopping when they spot the train and Louis dramatically wipes a sleeve across his forehead. Which reminds him.

“Think you’ll probably miss this, you know.” He makes to shrug out of the jacket Harry gave him but Harry stops him, putting a hand on his forearm.

“It looks better on you.”

“Now that’s a lie and you know it.”

“I’m serious,” Harry grins. “I’d like you to keep it.”

Louis wants to argue because this is ridiculous but Harry’s doing that thing with his face again, all open and wide, his mouth too red and big for the rest of him, and the fight drains out of him. He tucks himself tighter in the jacket and turns to hear the last call. “I reckon you won’t have much use of it in LA anyway.”

Harry nods. “Yeah. Reckon so.”

They stand there, finally a little awkward, and Louis has the urge to just start running and not look back.

“Look, Harry -”

“Louis, I’d like -”

They talk over each other and then laugh, both heads turned down.

“It was nice. Today was really nice, Harry,” Louis says, taking his chance. Harry nods from under his mop of curls.

“If I gave you my email, would you keep in touch?” And it’s terrible, absolutely gut-wrenchingly terrible how earnest Harry looks as he talks.

“Best not, Haz. I’d only be making a promise I wouldn’t keep.” He grits his teeth because he hates the words coming out of his mouth. Harry nods again, mostly to the ground.

“Still. It’s on page three. You can ignore it, if you want.” Harry turns as he sees the platform empty around him. “You’d better go.”

“I - yeah.” Louis twists on the spot, lugging his luggage onto the train. The tight feeling in his chest makes it hard to breathe and he’s dumping the rest of shit on the floor of the train car and yelling a chorus of ‘shitshitfuckbloodywankmotherbloodyfuck’ when he jumps off again. He barrels into Harry on his tiptoes and buries his hands in Harry’s hair, laughing into his mouth more than kissing him. Someone is shouting at him rather loudly in French as he lets go.

“Dramatic, that,” Harry breathes out, dimples out in full force.

“I’ve always wanted to do that.” Louis leans up - one last time, he insists to himself, just to remember - and plants another kiss on Harry’s mouth. He bites his lip as he climbs back on the train and it hurts his face to smile this much. “I’ll see you again, Harry Styles!” There’s a ticket inspector shrieking incomprehensibly in his ear so it’s hard to catch Harry’s reply but he thinks it’s probably along the lines of “See you soon, Louis Tomlinson!”

It’s enough.


End file.
